


THE CASE FILES OF MARCIA OVERSTRAND

by overstrand_marcia_i



Category: Septimus Heap - Angie Sage
Genre: AU, Angst, Assassin AU, F/F, F/M, Magyk, Marcellia, Other, Septimus Heap - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-23
Updated: 2018-11-24
Packaged: 2019-08-27 23:55:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16712470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/overstrand_marcia_i/pseuds/overstrand_marcia_i
Summary: Marcia Overstrand Assassin AU. A bitter woman hardened to the world by the violent nature of her occupation, Marcia Overstrand leads us down the rabbit hole of her world as she slowly realizes she is no longer the one pulling the strings. Something far more sinister is behind the scenes.





	1. JOURNAL ENTRY NUMBER ONE

**Author's Note:**

> DISCLAIMER: I do not own or claim any relation to the Septimus Heap franchise. All canon characters are credited to Angie Sage. This is simply fancontent, created for other fans.
> 
> A word of warning: This is an assassin AU centered around Marcia Overstrand and I have put it under the rating "Explicit" largely for its use of violence and its tone/subject nature.

**JOURNAL ENTRY NUMBER ONE: ******

********

********

By all accounts and measures, I, Marcia Overstrand, am dead. 

I begin my statements to you via this journal after the Moment. I am going to chronicle my life for you in two periods: B.M. (Before Moment) and A.M. (After Moment). I’m sure your confusion has already run rampant through what I’ve written. The only advice I will offer you, however, is to hold your tongue and withhold commentary. All in good time, darling.

So why am I dead? For that, we’re going to have to step more than a touch back in time…hmm…let’s slip back a few years…

——-

People used to ask me what I did for a living. Would it surprise you to learn that they don’t ask anymore? Well…they don’t. I don’t exaggerate when I say that if I had told them, I would have had to kill them. And who knows…I know. Oh, who the _hell_ am I kidding–I’m the only one that knows now.

So I’ll tell you and maybe I won’t kill you. Or maybe I will. We’ll see. Sight, Seduction, Suspense, Silence, Strike. Maybe you’ll see it coming. But chances are you won’t. They never do.

But by then I’ll be done. It won’t matter. So here it is: I am the most dangerous woman you have ever met and will ever meet. I am an assassin, one of the greatest the world has ever seen.

I kill people for a living; I get a call from the CIA or the FBI or other, more _private,_ more _secret_ sources, and they tell me who, what, when, where, why, and how. And I do it. I make good money too. No hesitation, no attachment. Sight, Seduction, Suspense, Silence, Strike.

Sometimes it’s as easy as drugging a drink at a party with something a little stronger than cyanide, other times…well other times it gets more…let’s just say _personal_. I’m a fan of poison-–it has always served me well. But I get the appeal of the messier strategies. They’re as effective as you want them to be. Daggers and needles full of rattlesnake venom and scalpels and guns, especially pistols. Really like pistols. So…satisfying.

Sorry. I really _did_ get off on a tangent there, didn’t I? Well you know, if you want to use it all against me, good luck, darling. Well, I hope you won’t think too badly of me for all this. Unfortunately, it does come with the territory.

Being an assassin calls for cold calm even in the most dangerous of situations. It means being a woman of any face, of all faces…not to mention personalities. Can’t count how many times I’ve had to play the sister, the wife, the bitch, the actress…sometimes they all blend together, leaving only one countable, definable moment: when you see the light leave the eyes of that _helpless_ person you’ve just killed in cold blood.

You can’t feel remorse, you can’t feel regret, and you absolutely cannot feel guilt. If you feel guilt in this business, you’re done for, if you know what I’m saying.

They train you for all this, well…not for the mental stuff but how to execute a murder in seconds, how to spy, how to worm your way into someone’s personal life just so you can choose that _perfect_ opportunity. 

I trained as an assassin in Argentina, starting when I was sixteen. The training lasted seven years and a day in a place called the Tower. I won’t elaborate too much, but Mella made me into the best student that place had ever seen. I came out on top, and it became time to use that knowledge to my benefit.

——-

All this, the training, most of the killing, most of…everything really, came B.M. I never doubted for a second that when I would die it would be on the job, finally outsmarted. The killings that led up to the Moment didn’t seem unusual, however, until I was already in too deep.

After all, all’s well that ends well until you’re no longer in control of yourself, in control of the puppet strings that keep you a faceless, dangerous killer. As Mella said so often that it haunts me:

_“Careful what you wish for, lest it come true.”_


	2. JOURNAL ENTRY NUMBER TWO

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marcia Overstrand Assassin AU. A bitter woman hardened to the world by the violent nature of her occupation, Marcia Overstrand leads us down the rabbit hole of her world as she slowly realizes she is no longer the one pulling the strings. Something far more sinister is behind the scenes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: I do not own or claim any relation to the Septimus Heap franchise. All canon characters are credited to Angie Sage. This is simply fancontent, created for other fans.
> 
> A word of warning: This is an assassin AU centered around Marcia Overstrand and I have put it under the rating "Explicit" largely for its use of violence and its tone/subject nature.

**JOURNAL ENTRY NUMBER TWO:**

Ah, so you’re actually interested in this fucked-up mess. If you weren’t, I wouldn’t see you reading this. Well, it really is time to explain, isn’t it? Oh…where _shall_ we begin? Let’s try the dead drop. 

——-

When you’ve got a price on your head higher than the federal budget on your head for all the things you’ve done, one would hardly be inclined to take a stroll into the Pentagon in search of your next assignment.

That’s not to say I don’t do that on occasion…after all, it is the people at the tippy top that want me to do their dirty work. (Not gonna lie, sometimes it is fun to walk in there looking for a fight.) Once upon a time, government officials gave me trouble. But now they just put up a hypothetical “Wanted” poster with a price higher than a king’s whore and call it a day. What I’m saying, in not so many words, is that people have learned to leave me alone…as they should…I’m dangerous; a time bomb; I know I won’t last forever, not as a puppet anyway.

Back to the dead drop then, I guess. I assume you’re bright enough to at least know what one is, and I’m sure you’ve passed many without ever knowing they were there…after all, the point is for it to stay a secret.

I was on my way to the gym, just walking out the doors of my apartment building when the fluttering of an empty cigarette pack underneath the regulation blue mailbox caught my gaze. To an innocent passerby who knew nothing of the underground spy network in D.C., it would have just been seen as casual, ordinary trash.

But I knew better. Glancing quickly around me, I leaned down, pretended to tie my shoe and snatched up the empty box, crumpling it in my fist. I shoved it deep into my gym bag, knowing it wouldn’t be safe to look at until I was home again.

At the gym, I pushed myself harder and harder, nearly giddy with excitement of the assignment to come. I know what you’re thinking. “Sick, twisted bitch, how can she be excited?” _Listen, honey,_ if you wanted an angel, you shouldn’t have called an assassin. Whatever, darling. Take it as you will; I was excited.

——-

Back safe in my apartment, I took out the crumpled cigarette pack, unfolded the thin wax paper at the base, spread it on the table, and immediately rolled my eyes. Of course, it _would_ be in fucking _Norwegian._

I stalked over to my bookshelf, found the appropriate dictionary, and began the irritatingly slow process of translation. It almost felt like I was back in school and Mella was scolding me for not wanting to be fluent in yet another language. I mean, at that point, I was already fluent in nine, but it still felt like he was staring over my shoulder, telling me: “I told you so.”

After all was said and done with, the paper read:

_By the implicit request of XXXXX, a secret committee within the CIA, you, Marcia Overstrand, are instructed to take out the aforementioned target. Immediately after, you will return to D.C. and expect the next target. Expect trouble in both cases._

_Who: Julius Pike_

_What: Highly influential stockbroker on Wall St. Money and reputation at the top of NYC’s social elite. Steeped in illegal drug trade and other activities._

_Where: 40.7128° N, 74.0059° W_

_When: As soon as possible, preferably immediately. The assassination needs to happen in as discreet a way as possible. Do not arouse any unnecessary suspicions._

_Why: Target must be eliminated due to his dangerous involvement and control of the cocaine smuggling business and for a betrayal of trust that is not on your security clearance, Ms. Overstrand._

_How: You need to gain an invitation to one of his many parties and convince him to leave with you. Only when he takes you up on this, do you slip a slow release toxin into his drink. Pick your poison; preferably something that will make it look like he died in his sleep. Make sure he dies asleep in bed…it doesn’t matter how you do that._

——-

All in all, it read like a pretty typical job for me; nothing I hadn’t done before. After a little digging of my own, I was on my way with a plan quickly hatching in my brain.

——-

For storytelling purposes, let’s fast-forward to the moment I walked up the steps to the private club. My purple dress kept people interested just enough for their eyes to overlook the slightly odd bulge where my thigh holster rested. I won’t deny it, I kind of looked slutty, but at least I was looking like I was dressed to kill. And I was, both literally and metaphorically.

The gun was the last resort and I wouldn’t use it, I knew. But there was something strangely comforting about having a gun on you. What I would be using, however, was a tiny pill set into my hairpin, hiding right in plain sight. All it would take would be to dissolve it into an alcohol of some kind and wait.

I strode across the floor slowly, confidently, slowly raking my eyes over the crowded room in search of Julius Pike. It didn’t take long to spot him. I swear to _God_ he was high on whatever the best money in New York could buy. I shrugged, almost giggling to myself. “Makes my job easier, anyway.” I slid onto the stool next to him at the bar with comfortable ease. Not missing a beat, I ordered a whiskey neat.

It was time to put on the mask. _You’re the temptress, Marcia,_ I told myself, _make him want you. Let’s do this._

I leaned close, ran my finger slowly down his arm, and whispered: “I can’t stop staring at you…Julius, you are _absolutely_ mesmerizing…”

Julius turned and stared at me, half-questioning me, half-pressing me to keep going. “And you might be…?” he asked softly, taking a sip of what looked (and smelled) like tequila to me.

“Your deepest fantasy…” I drawled softly, letting my hand wander up to his shoulder. _And your worst nightmare,_ I added in my head. “Ashley Golden, if you must know, _darling…”_

“Well, Ashley. I must say you are quite forward. You know who I am. What is it you really want from me? Is it money? Power?”

I leaned closer to Julius, trailing my nails softly down his neck and unbuttoning the top button of his shirt. “Must you know?”

“I must…” mumbled Julius, playing along. He traced his hand up my thigh and I shivered lightly, letting out a tiny gasp.

“Well if you must know, Julius, I want you…in all sorts of terrible, terrible ways…”

Julius bit his lip. I knew I was sounding better and better as evening plans to him. Told you I’m good at this. If I’m being honest, it feels dirty and manipulative and wrong to do that to completely unsuspecting men (and women, if I’m confessing all) but it doesn’t bother me. Not really. Not if it gets the mission accomplished faster.

“What will you do to me?” Julius muttered.

I’ll save you the disgusting, despicable details of what I whispered into that man’s ear. Let’s just say it was enough for him to walk out the back door of the club looking happy to see me if you know the euphemism. 

Five minutes later, we were in a taxi doing rather…unrepeatable things. Fifteen minutes later we were in his apartment. I decided it was time to abuse _my_ knowledge of his personal drug abuse.

“Darling Julius…” I undid my hairpin and pulled the little blue pill out. “Why don’t we make this the night we get higher than these skyscrapers outside, huh? Do you want it? Do you want _me?”_ I accentuated the speech by reaching around and unzipping my dress, letting it fall to the ground.

Julius let his gaze wander hungrily over my barely covered body before taking the pill out of my hand and knocking it back with a glass of scotch. 

I smirked at him. I didn’t even have to slip it into his drink…he took it of his own accord. Technically, I wouldn’t even be at fault for this one. Alcohol and poison… _so_ deadly and _so_ illegal…I love my job.

I pushed him down onto his bed and climbed on top of him. As I felt his body start to go limp underneath me, I pulled away and laughed. I was right. He never saw me coming. Helpless and weak, he reached out towards me. I placed one more gentle, _final_ kiss on his lips.

“Careful what you wish for, lest it come true, _darling.”_ I smiled a devastatingly cruel smile as he closed his eyes for the last time. And those were the last words Julius Pike ever heard.

——-

I spent the next few minutes painting a picture of a helpless, drunk man’s suicide, nearly laughing aloud. It was all so easy. It was like I didn’t even have to _try_ anymore. 

——-

And then I was leaving like none of it ever happened; on my way back to D.C., ready for the next mission. I spent much of the trip wondering why I was still involved in this horribly dark business. _Because it’s fun, darling,_ I told myself, _After all, didn’t tonight prove that?_


	3. JOURNAL ENTRY NUMBER THREE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marcia Overstrand Assassin AU. A bitter woman hardened to the world by the violent nature of her occupation, Marcia Overstrand leads us down the rabbit hole of her world as she slowly realizes she is no longer the one pulling the strings. Something far more sinister is behind the scenes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: I do not own or claim any relation to the Septimus Heap franchise. All canon characters are credited to Angie Sage. This is simply fancontent, created for other fans.
> 
> A word of warning: This is an assassin AU centered around Marcia Overstrand and I have put it under the rating "Explicit" largely for its use of violence and its tone/subject nature.

**JOURNAL ENTRY NUMBER THREE:**

I had gone outside for a breath of fresh air that morning after Julius Pike died, eager to get away from my dark and somewhat gloomy apartment. As I walked aimlessly down the block, I hoped that my assignment would come quickly. Downtime has never been something I enjoy having. You know…murder, and all _that_ jazz. There’s no time to develop a conscience in my line of work.

I sighed and turned back towards home. All of a sudden, someone began to step next to me, easily keeping pace. I didn’t who he was, but the way he acted was clearly indicative of someone at the metaphorical desk of secrets. 

_Good,_ I thought, quite pleased at the turn of events, _finally._

“Her name is Syrah Syara. She is twenty-three; in D.C. for the weekend on a business trip. She’s in the business of stocks and bonds. Takes after her father, you know? And she’s only heard about her _tragic_ loss this afternoon.” The man lowered his voice to a heavy whisper. “Ms. Overstrand, as Julius Pike’s only living relative…she’s got to exit stage right…permanently…if you catch my drift.”

I could see the glint of a polished, fake smile beneath the man’s hooded sweatshirt. “Poor girl…she must be absolutely _devastated_ to find out about her father. Something like that could be enough to send a defenseless soul up to heaven with a razor in her hands.” He spoke in a cruel, mocking tone, and I knew that Syrah would have to die by her own hands…with my help of course.

“You’ll find her at the ChurchKey on fourteenth around eleven. Do what you must, and make sure she wishes she had never been born. After all, it is a terrible fate to die under a knife…” 

And then the man was gone. I groaned slightly. I didn’t object to the job, per say, but I didn’t like that someone was about to be made to pay for damages her father so recklessly caused. Sure, I knew why it made sense to take her out. But did the end really justify the means?”

God, I’ve got to stop pretending I’m the good guy. I am not, have never been, and will _never_ be the good guy. Ah well…nothing to do besides live and let die, right? That’s what I always say.

——-

As I walked into ChurchKey that evening, I had a very different mask than the one I had commanded the night before. A slightly oversized, secondhand pantsuit in a horrible flower pattern, a clumsy, apologetic walk, and a face aged twenty years older created my appearance of a middle-aged, dumpy social worker come to meet a client. All in all, I was quite convincing.

I could see her at the bar even before I pushed past the crowd of people; Syrah sat with a mostly empty bottle of something and a crumpled, messy bun. _Here we go again,_ I told myself, _Let’s sell it, Marcia._

“Uh…excuse me, Ms.…Syrah Pike?” I tapped her lightly on the shoulder and she jumped, turning quickly in my direction. Red-rimmed eyes, puffy from crying apparently, stared me down accusingly. 

“Who are you? What do you want?” she spat angrily at me.

She was going to be harder to convince than her father. That was obvious. 

“My name is Linda Lane, my dear,” I said softly. “I’m here to talk to you about your dear belated father’s arrangements.”

She stood up, threw a few dollars at her place and pushed the stool in with a horrible scraping sound against the floor. “Don’t you dare!” Syrah glowered at me, “Quite frankly, _my dear,_ I don’t give a damn about your stupid fake ‘arrangements.’ Why can’t all you fucking undercover reporters let me grieve in peace for five damn minutes? Christ!”

With these last biting, venomous words, Syrah stomped out of the bar and onto the street. Some would have given this mission up as a lost cause at this point. But that someone wasn’t me. If she was to be dead, I was determined to do it before the clock struck midnight.

——-

And so it was with this determination that I followed her out of that bar. Luckily, or maybe unluckily for us both, her hotel was less than a block’s walk. I trailed behind Syrah perhaps twenty feet or so, slipping on thin gloves to hide my fingerprints from anyone who would come looking as I went.

She burst in the front doors, flashing her card as she went, running up the stairs. I, on the other hand, had to think quickly of a convincing story to get to her room.

Forcing a few fake tears, I rushed inside, hurrying up to the desk. “Please help me!” I cried out in distress, making my voice quiver and shake. “I’ve just spoken with my dear niece and I’m terribly worried about her. She’s in a fit about that awful boyfriend of hers and is planning to move to _Florida_ with him! The horror! Oh, can you _imagine_ the _tragedy?”_ I wailed to the lady behind the desk. 

“Please, my good lady, will you tell me what room she’s in so I can talk some sense into her? That boyfriend is trouble; it’s just like I’ve always said. Please, may I speak to her?” I said in absolute anguish, tears running down my cheeks.

The lady gave me a look that absolutely screamed _‘You’re fucking crazy,’_ but apparently, my mad gamble was successful because she just gave me an annoyed, get-out-of-my-face stare. “Who’s your niece?”

“S-syrah P-p-pike,” I stuttered, sniffling.

“Room two-twenty-six. But don’t come crying to me if she don’t let you in, lady,” she stated flatly, picking at her chipping nail polish. 

“Oh, bless you! Thank you! Thank you!” I cried, making a big scene of stumbling up the stairs until I was out of her line of sight.

I couldn’t help but laugh. I couldn’t believe that worked. Wiping meaningless tears and makeup from my cheeks, I strode down the corridor in my _beautiful_ yellow, flowered pantsuit looking for room 226.

It didn’t take long. I arrived outside the door and took a deep breath. It was time.

I rapped softly on the door. “Housekeeping!” I called softly.

Syrah cracked open the door a smidge. “Can you come back later-” her voice turned from apologetic to absolutely venomous as soon as she saw my face. “You!” she growled, “But…how?”

I pushed my way in, shutting the door behind me. I covered her mouth and held her fast. I didn’t want to deal with any…unfortunate screaming. She was struggling too much for my liking.

It seemed like it was time to use something fun. From my pocket, I drew out a tiny syringe and injected the contents into a vein in Syrah’s neck. Her eyes grew wide and stared at me with utter terror as her body slowly went limp in my arms.

She was barely conscious; in fact, it was all she could do to keep her eyes open. I dragged her into the bathroom, peeled back the shower curtain, and lifted her into the bathtub.

“Wait here a moment, darling,” I said sweetly, knowing she had no choice but to do so. It was cruel and heartless of me, but here’s the thing: I didn’t really _care._ Stepping gingerly across the tiled floor, I picked up the hairdryer lying on the bathroom counter and smashed it into the mirror.

Splinters of glass shot all across the tiny room. I took one of the larger shards and knelt down beside the tub again. Syrah’s eyes fluttered and she groaned helplessly at me as I lifted the glass to her wrist and began my work.

Now I think it’ll be for the best if I spare you the somewhat stomach-churning details of what happened to her, what I did to her. Let’s just leave it at the scene was somewhat…messy…if you catch my drift.

——-

As I carefully did away with all possible incriminating evidence and left the building through a downstairs side door, I felt oddly sick. I wasn’t quite sure why I felt like this, as I’d done messier murders in the past. Maybe guilt was catching up with me.

“Well, it better not be. Not on my fucking watch,” I muttered tiredly to myself as I slipped into my car and drove uptown. 

Just as I was starting to be lulled into the mindless task of driving through the city, my phone rang.

“Hello?”

“Is she dispatched?” the disembodied voice in my ear questioned hurriedly.

“Yes.”

“Good. Expect coordinates and instructions at thirteen hundred hours _precisely_ tomorrow. Expect foul winds in Buenos Aires, Marcia Overstrand. Foul winds indeed.”

_Well,_ I thought, _there ain’t no rest for the wicked. And so it began again. Or did it simply continue?_


End file.
